


Play for Me

by Boton



Category: Elementary (TV), House M.D., Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep."</p>
<p>He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air -- his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.</p>
<p>-- Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four</p>
<p>Three Holmeses.  Three Watsons.  Three different times that that the detective/diagnostician soothed his friend with music.  An exercise in taking a canon Arthur Conan Doyle scene into the world of Sherlock, House, and Elementary.</p>
<p>(Note:  This work is now available in Chinese at http://tieba.baidu.com/p/3558699350.  I did not do the translation; thank you to Chandler for doing so!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock and John

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All shows and properties are the possession of their owners and creators. I am not profiting from this work; it is solely for my own enjoyment and that of my readers.
> 
> Author's Note: A little writing exercise. I love this short passage from "The Sign of Four" by Arthur Conan Doyle:
> 
> “Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep."
> 
> He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air -- his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.
> 
> \-- Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four
> 
> So I wondered what would happen if I took three modern retellings of the Sherlock Holmes story - Sherlock, House, and Elementary - and found a pivotal point at which the Holmes/Watson relationship was evolving and "Holmes" may choose to sooth his friend with music.
> 
> Although all of these stories are from the "Holmes" perspective (insofar as the only internal thoughts belong to the "Holmes" character), the works turned out to be as much a character story of the "Watsons" as it is of the "Holmeses." What would bother each of these "Watsons" enough to prevent a night's sleep? And how would each "Holmes" express himself through music?
> 
> Rated T for language, mostly from House.

(This takes place at the beginning of "A Scandal in Belgravia.")

***

Sherlock and John climbed the stairs to 221B and shucked off their coats, the scent of chlorine still clinging faintly to them. They had finally come face-to-face with Moriarty, and, for a few moments, it looked like their mission would become one of the suicide variety. They had agreed; a quick, wordless look at one another as Sherlock pointed his gun at the Semtex-laden coat that had recently been worn by John, an un-executed handshake that they would go up together rather than see Moriarty go free.

It didn’t turn out that way. A phone call, of all things, interrupted the tense stand-off, leaving Moriarty to stroll out of the pool in a whirl of Westwood while Sherlock and John made their way home. Both were more than a little shaken. 

Sherlock was shaken because this was the first time he had ever truly worked with a partner, someone who had his back and was willing to die for the same mission he was. Sherlock had never expected to live a long life; he took too many chances, threw himself into too many dangerous situations. Sooner or later, one was bound to catch up. 

But here was a man who was willing to fight by his side, to die with him. For the first time, Sherlock understood a little of what soldiers must go through; the increased feeling of certainty that came with going into combat with a brother by one’s side. It was a heady feeling, a secure one, and one that Sherlock wanted to examine more closely in his own mind.

But John, however, did not appear to be floating on a cloud of adrenaline. Instead, the comedown looked rough. John’s hand gripped the bannister on the way up to the flat to conceal a tremor, Sherlock knew, and he thought he saw a hint of the old limp. Whatever John’s desire for adventure, it was clear that today’s escapade reminded him a bit too much of the battlefield.

“Mate, I’m knackered,” John said by way of excuse, continuing from the landing to the steps leading to his room. “I think I’m for bed.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, his eyes following John up the stairs until he disappeared.

Sherlock knew that John was distressed, but he didn’t know what he could do about it. He had only recently sorted out whether John indeed had somehow been promoted from “colleague” and “flatmate” to “friend,” a category seldom if ever pressed into use in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock had very little data on how to comfort a friend, but he knew that John would not take well to overt displays of concern.

After changing into his lounging clothes and making a cup of tea, Sherlock heard a series of noises coming from the upstairs bedroom, first faint, then growing in intensity. John was shouting, presumably calling out in his sleep. Names, like Garrison and Turner and MacNeil. Instructions to get down, watch out; requests for medical equipment. Then, a large thud, and the room went silent.

Sherlock stared at the door to the lounge, waiting for John to appear. He did, eyes red, one hand rubbing his head as if to try to erase what had gone before.

“Everything OK?” Sherlock asked tentatively. He knew that John suffered from PTSD-related nightmares, but he had witnessed very few, and this one sounded like one of the worst.

“Yeah, fine, just not tired I guess,” John covered. “Think I’ll get some milk and try to kip on the couch for a bit. If I’m not intruding,” John said uncertainly.

With a nascent understanding, Sherlock realized that John didn’t want to be alone. But what was he supposed to do to help? He knew nothing he could say to take away the anxiety of the Moriarty encounter, or the memories it apparently dredged up. Sherlock was one of the most articulate men in the country when it came to matters of science and deduction, but he knew he was rubbish at anything involving emotion. Best not to try.

“You’re not intruding,” he said softly, crossing to pick up his violin. “I was just working on a composition; helps me think. If it won’t disturb you…?” he asked.

“No, good. It’s, um, good,” John said, reclining on the couch while Sherlock assumed his usual spot facing out the window overlooking Baker Street.

He was composing; that was no lie. But John’s presence dictated the direction of the piece. He began to play a tune of his own making that started clear and brave. Then, it slowly built to a crescendo, the melody telling the story of action and decision. And then, softness, relaxation. Somehow, a sense of home and comfort told in the sounds Sherlock coaxed from the violin. Sounds of peace, and safety, and, Sherlock hoped, sounds of never being alone. John had left the battlefield, but he was not abandoned. He still had a brother in arms, if he would listen to the music and hear the message.

When Sherlock turned around after finishing his composition, he saw John fast asleep on the couch, worry lines eased and breath coming softly and quietly. Sherlock put his violin away and crept back to his own bedroom, where he would be sure to hear if John needed him during the night.


	2. House and Wilson

(This takes place sometime after "Wilson.")

***  
The new apartment was a good one, House thought. More room to spread out. Brighter, airier. 

But most important, less Amber. 

When House came home from Mayfield, it was on the condition that he not live alone for a while, and Wilson was, of course, the one to take him in. But living in the apartment that Wilson had shared with Amber was, frankly, a little creepy. Wilson kept it like a museum, Amber’s belongings still where she left them that fateful night. The things he touched he put back in their place, as if Amber would return any moment to see if the sauce pans were in the right place or if her extra set of house keys had moved. It was, to put it mildly, freaky.

This move had to be good for Wilson. A new place. New memories. Amber’s possessions in boxes, shipped back to her family or stored where they wouldn’t be a continual knife to Wilson’s heart. 

House sat in the living room rubbing his thigh; his leg was killing him today, and trying to attack the pain with acetaminophen was like trying to fix his leg by throwing Tic-Tacs at it. He looked up only to see Wilson come from his room, his finger marking a page in a book he was reading. He sat dejectedly on the couch, strain apparent on his face. 

“What’s up? Find a word you can’t pronounce? Have you tried sounding it out?” House asked.

“Funny, House. No, it’s…Amber gave me this book. She said she saw it in a second hand store and thought of me. I forgot she wrote in it,” he said, his voice catching a bit on the last word.

Ah, so that’s it, House thought. Even with the new digs and the new memories, there were little artifacts like landmines scattered all over the apartment. Nothing he could do about that. Nothing he could do at all to take away Wilson’s pain.

He stood up, took his cane, and hobbled to the kitchen to pour them both a scotch. He came back to hand one glass to Wilson, then returned to his own chair and picked up his guitar. He wished he had his piano here, but it was a beast to move from his apartment, and Wilson didn’t seem too keen on the idea. Plus, moving his piano would force House to confront another possible reality: That he’d never really be ready to live on his own again, and that maybe he didn’t want to. He didn’t know which of those ideas scared him more.

“What we need here,” House said, “is some music to read by.” He took up the guitar and started to play as Wilson looked down to his book.

First, he played his own favorites. Classic rock. Singer-songwriter stuff. Artists who knew how to make the electric guitar sing and cry and sound like the angels from a church pipe organ or the devils from your own soul. He looked at Wilson and thought he saw a tear on his cheek as he turned the page; it was swiftly scrubbed away before Wilson thought House had seen.

House changed, then, to playing Amber’s favorites. The songs he knew she had on her iPod when he caught her in the lab, volume at maximum and sound bleeding from her ear buds while she executed some rote analysis. The songs he found on the CD collection that Wilson couldn’t bear to part with. The songs he heard Wilson humming in the shower when he thought no one could hear.

With each one, House regretted, and regret was not a comfortable feeling for him. But, oh, how he regretted calling Amber and Wilson’s apartment that night, drunk and entitled, for yet another pick-up from yet another bar. If he’d just handled things himself, they’d never have wound up on that damn bus.

He regretted not solving the puzzle faster. Realizing that Amber was a Jane Doe taken to another hospital. Realizing that she had a medication flowing through her body that 99.99 percent of the time made life less miserable for people who took it, and in a very few, random chances set up the perfect conditions for multi-system failure. If he had figured it out sooner, he could have solved it; he always solved it. Except this once, when it mattered most.

He regretted even letting Amber start the application process for the fellowship. She was an uptight bitch; he told her so. If he had cut her loose the first week, she would never have met Wilson. She would never have set foot on the path that would lead to her death and Wilson’s devastation.

House played and played, regret wrapping around memory, giving the only comfort he knew how. When he looked up, Wilson was fast asleep on the couch, clutching Amber’s book to his chest.


	3. Sherlock and Joan

(This takes place sometime after "Details.")

***  
It didn’t take a consulting detective to know that Watson had come home upset, Sherlock thought, as he saw her enter the door of the brownstone, agitation etched on her face. She had been out to dinner with friends; former colleagues from her time as a surgeon, he deduced from looking at the extra care she had put into her wardrobe. Her heels were a bit higher, her skirt a bit shorter, her jewelry a little more expensive than usual. Clearly, she was trying to project an air of success.

He picked up his violin and began to idly tune it, listening to the sounds coming from upstairs. Judging from the number of slamming doors and angry footfalls, the dinner must not have gone well. Likely, Watson had told them her decision to become Sherlock’s apprentice, another career move since leaving medicine and becoming a sober companion.

Watson came down the stairs looking cross, barefoot but in her nightclothes and clutching a robe close around her defensively. She plopped down on the couch and curled her feet up under her, looking at Sherlock but not saying a word.

Sherlock wasn’t good with emotions, his own or others’, but Watson was so clearly telegraphing her frustration that he knew he had to do something. He went to pull a chair in front of her and sit down.

“When I invented the job of consulting detective,” he began without preamble, “it was because there was no other occupation that suited my personality and talents. I could have been a scientist, or a professor, or countless other things, but I needed something more.” Watson looked at him with mild confusion, accustomed to his lack of segue into topics but clearly wondering where this was going.

“I was successful in working with New Scotland Yard, but then,” here he paused, guarded, unwilling to say too much, “things went, shall we say, pear shaped. You know the depths to which I had sunk, but you didn’t know how much I doubted my commitment to my chosen path. I was adrift. The…incident…which led to my heroin addiction tipped the balance on much more than just my tenuous grip on sobriety.”

“When I came to New York, I had to reinvent myself. You’ve seen that process. And you’ve seen how important it is, as detectives, that we keep learning.” He placed the violin and bow in her hands, reaching over to gently help her place the instrument in the correct position, show her how to hold it between her hand and her shoulder, and how to use the bow to coax the first tentative sounds from it.

Soon she stopped, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I miss it,” she said. “I can’t ever go back; I can’t ever feel certain of my abilities again, and that’s too big of a risk to take with other people’s lives. But I miss it.”

“You cannot make music yet, but it isn’t important what others think of your attempts,” Sherlock said, as if he hadn’t heard her comment. “What matters is that you are willing to learn, willing to reinvent. There are not many with the courage to pick up a new instrument.”

“I suppose so,” Watson said softly. She handed the violin back to Sherlock and curled herself more fully onto the couch.

“Play for me. I think I’d learn a lot from listening to a master.”

Without a word, Sherlock retreated to the other side of the room and began to play softly a song that sounded new, hopeful, and ready for adventure. When he next looked over, Watson was asleep.


End file.
